


Lakare

by Slenderlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Happy Ending (sort of), Johnlock's the endgame here, Multi, Mycroft is a dick, Mystery, fluffy ending?, implied major character death, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slenderlock/pseuds/Slenderlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is officially dead. He’s hunting down Moriarty’s ring, but he needs a safe house, somewhere to go when he’s in between missions. He’s running out of options, which leaves him with one Sally Donovan. She reluctantly agrees to help him, and they work together to take down Moriarty’s syndicate. Meanwhile, Irene Adler is working with an old colleague to do the same. He is still refusing her invitations to dinner. Sherlock catches sight of a mysterious assassin who has a particular style- shooting his victims from long distances and carving ‘M’s into their foreheads. </p><p>Told mainly from the perspectives of Sally Donovan and Irene Adler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I am aware of the tense changes. They are deliberate.

Sally Donovan awoke from thinning dreams to a night black as death. At first, she didn’t understand why her body had chosen this particular time to regain consciousness, and she attempted to force herself once more into oblivion. But, after twenty minutes or so of failing to fall back asleep, she resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to achieve her goal, and set about getting up. 

London’s winter wind rattled the windows, the rain hammering the glass as she dressed loosely, not particularly caring which pieces of fabric to cover herself with. As she dressed, she pondered why she had awoken. The week had been exhausting, what with that Watson fellow up heaving whatever chance the Yard had had at a calm month, and the rekindling of the movement towards proving the late Sherlock Holmes innocent. The movement had ended about six months after the affectionately named “Fall”, and Watson had uprooted it again about a year after the event. After slipping on her pale green dressing gown, she felt the first stirrings of hunger in her stomach and made up her mind to eat breakfast, no matter how early it might be.

Sally crossed the small hallway that ran through the center of her flat and entered the kitchen, travelling towards the cupboards. She brought a hand to the right door and pulled it open, searching for a package of tea that would hopefully calm her nerves.

“I took the liberty of destroying whatever it was you called tea; hope you don’t mind,” came a voice from behind her, a voice that she’d previously been relieved to know she’d never have to tolerate again.

Sally spun around, startled beyond her wits. Sherlock Holmes stood, unmoving, in the doorway to the kitchen. Her tongue glued itself to the roof of her mouth and refused to budge. Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting her to say something. Sally, who was still frozen in place, forced her tongue to move.   
Sherlock Holmes was not dead at all, it seemed. Sally supposed she really should have expected it. After the ‘Fall’, the public had grown wild. Sides were taken on the issue, and Sally had admittedly been torn. On one hand, she’d wanted to believe that Sherlock Holmes was a fake, a little selfishly. He’d always been so incredibly rude to her and to everyone else at the Yard. If he was a criminal, then Sally could fully justify hating him. But it didn’t all add up. Why would he kill himself? Even if he’d been outed as a criminal, she didn’t think he’d go quite that far. And now he was here. Was he going to murder her for revealing him as a criminal? Or was he going to murder her for making the public believe she was a criminal? Neither option seemed likely, and he didn’t look particularly malicious. 

“Why are you here?” Sally challenged, straightening her stance and crossing her arms. 

Holmes gave a half smile that Sally took to mean approval and nodded at the kitchen table. Sally cautiously lowered herself into a seat opposite the man who, until a few moments ago, she had been pretty sure was very much dead and not quite as alive as he seemed to be at the moment.

“I was hoping,” Holmes started, threading his fingers together and resting his chin on top of them, “to occupy your flat for the time being.”

Sally was thrown by the request. “What?”

Holmes frowned. “I need to stay here-”

“I know what you meant.” Sally cut him off. “I mean why here? Why not- I don’t know, Lestrade’s flat?”

“Lestrade’s too obvious,” Holmes replied, eyes narrowing. “Ever since he was sacked, I believe he’s been the leader of the movement, yes?” Though unspoken to both, each knew the movement that Holmes referred to. Walls had been defaced, buildings had been painted on. The internet had taken the case of Sherlock Holmes’s death and run with it. “Well, under John, of course.”

Sally stared blankly across the table. Was it possible? Did Holmes really not know?

“John?” she asked, cautiously. She gauged his reaction. 

“Yes, John. Watson,” Holmes added, unnecessarily. “Short. Blonde hair. Medical doctor-”

“I know who John is,” Sally hissed, crossing her arms. “And he’s not the leader of the movement; not anymore.” Holmes didn’t appear to know after all. 

“Why?” Holmes asked, looking genuinely confused. It was the first time he’d ever directed the particular question to Sally, and she found herself rather surprised. 

“You don’t know?” she asked, voicing her chaotic thoughts into a question. 

“Know what?” Holmes snapped.

“He’s dead,” Sally stated, bluntly. Holmes’s face flinched. He opened his mouth, closed it, and resorted to staring at Sally.

There was a long stretch of silence, in which Holmes looked as if he was lost for words. Sally cataloged his expression, repressing the inappropriate urge to laugh. It seemed that John Watson had indeed meant a great deal to the detective. Sally still had doubts, however. Had he ever been a detective, anyways? He seemed serious about this, though he would probably still sound serious if he was lying to her face. She attempted to remain unbiased, but it was not an easy task. The Yard had settled with the general agreement that Sherlock Holmes, whoever he was, was dead, and whether or not he was a fraud was still up in the air. After his dramatic departure, many people had lost interest in the detective. Some believed he’d been a criminal and a psychopath. Some believed he’d been a hero and had committed suicide because of the caving walls of society. Some doubted if he even existed; Sherlock Holmes had just been a character after all. A few held their own theories up, talking to whoever would listen. John Watson hadn’t been one of them. He’d given a short, simple sentence on his blog and left it at that, not communicating with anyone. 

Sally had found this odd. He was an army doctor coming home from Afghanistan, wasn’t he? Surely he was made of stronger stuff. Evidently not, she learned, when after only a few short months he’d downed a bottle of pills and left nothing behind. No note was found, no relatives showed to the short funeral that had been hastily put together, and nothing was said of him since.

“How?” Holmes asked, quietly, after a few minutes of silence that wasn’t quite awkward but wasn’t comfortable enough to merit coughing. The question was vague, yet Sally knew exactly what he was referring to. It didn’t really need saying.

“Killed himself,” Sally replied, eyebrows raising. “A few weeks ago. The press had a field day with it. The fraud detective and the heartbroken doctor who joined him shortly after and everything.”

Holmes said nothing to this.

“Why are you here?” Sally repeated, working some bite into her tone. “Why me?”

Holmes opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. “Because you can act,” he replied. “I can’t go to Lestrade. He was sacked after I… left and was a crucial part in the rally for my reputation. No, he’s far too obvious.” There was a devious gleam in his eye, and Sally got the feeling he’d relished being able to say the word ‘obvious’ again. She wondered to herself just how long it had been since Holmes had made any sort of deduction to anyone. “Irene Adler,” Holmes continued, and Sally pretended to know the name, “only told me she wasn’t available and refused to help. Anderson, of course, is completely out of the question.” Sally snorted.

“So you’ve come here?” she finished, crossing her legs and leaning back in her chair.

“Yes.” Holmes didn’t seem to want to admit it. Sally had a sneaking suspicion that she was his last resort.

“And what if I say no?” she asked, realizing that the prospect hadn’t crossed her mind until now.

Holmes gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose if you’d rather be assassinated by Moriarty’s people rather than work to get rid of them, by all means, tell the force I’m alive,” he said, sarcastically.

“Moriarty. You still say he’s real, then?” Sally challenged, looking Holmes in the eye.

“Was real. He’s dead.” Holmes glared back at her.

“Then he shouldn’t be a threat.”

“He isn’t. His people, on the other hand, are.”

“I see.” She didn’t.

“I am forced to remain in hiding until such time as it is safe for me to reappear,” Holmes continued. “It will take time; it has taken time.” Sally knew what he was talking about. Holmes’s mobile phone had been found on the roof, and the freak had apparently recorded the entire conversation on the rooftop. Come to think of it, the recording was released shortly before John Watson had killed himself. But now that John was gone, only two people remained that would be threatened if Holmes revealed himself to be alive.

“Do I have a choice?” Sally asked.

“Not particularly, no,” Holmes admitted, a ghost of a smile reaching his lips.

“Right, then.” Sally resigned herself to the fact that she was going to have to do this and at least it didn’t sound as boring as what she usually devoted her time to. “Fine. But no experiments. No body parts in the kitchen. No… deducing me or anything like that. Don’t think you’re on my good side, Freak.” She gave him a glare that didn’t house its usual fire.

Holmes nodded. “Of course.” He sounded sincere.

Sally extended a hand across the table, glaring Holmes in the eye. “Fine, then. Deal.”

Sherlock took her hand in his own and shook it, once. “Deal.”

 

o0O0o

 

Irene Adler checks her watch. He is late. She sighs in frustration. He was supposed to meet her here nearly twenty minutes ago and he is hardly ever late. He rarely disappoints her.

He’d come to her shortly after the Fall and requested her help. She had been amused at this; he was the last person she’d expect to come to her, as they’d parted ways so long ago and never looked back. He, perhaps, had looked back. She had not. She had agreed to help him, of course, as it proved a difficult challenge.

He, still, is not attracted to her. It angers her less than she had expected, and she supposes she shouldn’t have ever thought he would feel anything for her in the first place, let alone now. He still feels fascinated by her, but it falls short of anything but fascination.

But he is with her now, and she with him. Not in a mutual relationship, but in a mutual necessity for each other. It is for a price, of course. Nothing is ever free. After stripping her of the protection she’d built up for herself, he’d offered to return it if she helped him. She agreed, reminding him that it was his fault she needed the protection in the first place. He had found this amusing.

But sometimes things went wrong. He’d end up hurt or someone would find them. In these instances, all enmity between the two vanished as they fought to retain their lives.  
But now he is late, and she worries. If he’s been abducted, she needs to find him. If he had not bothered to tell her where he was going, which happened more often than she found convenient, then she’d just have to wait until he returned to do something. “Something” is usually a long talk which he pointedly ignores and a threat that they both know is never genuine.

But he is late. 

And she does not know where he is.

The door opens behind her.

“You’re late,” she says, pausing for a moment before turning to look at him.

“I am,” he replies. “I had to talk with her.”

“Of course.” They’ve discussed this, after all. The other woman is necessary. “You’re still late.”

“I should have contacted you,” he admits. It’s the closest thing to an apology she is going to get. 

“Yes, you should have.” She pulls out her mobile and flicks down the list of people she’s acquired. “Let’s get started.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am aware of the tense changes. They are intentional.

“Coffee?” Donovan asked, looking over at Sherlock, who was reclining on the couch. He didn’t appear to hear her. She opened her mouth, about to repeat the question, when he spoke.   
“Yes, coffee. A highly caffeinated drink usually taken with cream or sugar. I prefer mine black, with two sugars.” Sally gritted her teeth at the remark. Obviously Sherlock knew she was offering him coffee.

“Yes, all right. I remember how to make coffee.” Sally slammed the kettle down, sloshing water out the metal tip. It seemed tea was out of the picture at this point, being favored by coffee. “I was offering coffee. I know how to make it.”

Sherlock let out a fairly theatrical sigh. “You obviously don’t, as you’ve failed to prepare it correctly thus far. Need I explain to you once again the mechanics of making coffee?”  
Sally crossed her arms and shifted her weight to her right leg, the traditional ‘are you kidding me’ pose. She mentally renamed it the ‘are you fucking kidding me’ pose, for this particular situation.

“I’m a police officer, remember? I’ve made coffee enough times to remember how to make it.” 

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and resumed his silent musing. Sally thought, not for the first time, about perhaps timing the detective to see just how long he could remain motionless. The first time she’d struck up the courage to try it, she’d fallen asleep far before he’d moved. Indeed, when she had woken nine and a half hours later, he was still motionless on the couch, legs perfectly straight, head facing the ceiling, hands together in a pose that wasn’t quite praying. 

She had given this pose the title of ‘thinking pose’.

“However,” Sally continued, growing irritated at the man, “I’m not going to make you coffee.” 

The detective’s mildly amused face turned towards Sally’s own determined one.

“Oh, really?” he challenged, with the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. “I rather think you are.”

“No,” Sally said, defiantly. “I’m not. You’re going to make it yourself because you’ve nothing better to do than lie around all day, you lazy prick.” She spat the words at Sherlock, who, aside from his head, had not moved an inch.

“Lazy prick?” Sherlock repeated, eyes narrowing. “I’m lazy?"

Sally felt the first stirrings of bad idea back away now before someone gets hurt begin to kick in. 

“Er- no, I just-”

“I’m lazy? I managed to fake having my body crushed by the impact of falling- no, jumping- off a building, have been in hiding for the past year and a half, tracking down the secret organization of the most dangerous man in quite possibly the world, and you call me lazy?”

“No,” was the immediate response. Sally had to bite down on the side of her cheek to stop herself from saying anything else. There was a small bout of silence, in which Sherlock merely stared at her. Sally remained rooted to the spot, posture stiff and taut. Sherlock gave a low breath of air that could have been a laugh or a snort, and his head snapped back to the ceiling, eyes sliding shut.

“Black. Two sugars,” he repeated, satisfied that he’d won. Sally glared at him before setting the kettle on the stove. Bloody prick. She spared a thought that maybe he didn’t actually care at all, just wanted leverage over her to get what he wanted. But she shook it off before she could think too much about it. 

 

o0O0o

 

The next day, Sherlock was gone. 

He didn’t return for nearly a week, and when he did, his right arm was thoroughly marinated in his own blood and he limped from the doorway for a few meters before collapsing, exhausted, onto the couch.

“Jesus,” Sally hissed, sprinting over to where he lay, nearly unconscious, and turning him onto his back. Sherlock gave a few half hearted attempts to wave her away. “What happened to you?” she demanded.

“M’ fine,” he mumbled, looking as if he needed a monumental effort in the removal of his overly dramatic black coat. Sally tugged it from his shoulders and was startled to see the previously white shirt stained dark red around the arm. “Jus’ a wound. It’ll heal. Supplies. Now.”

Once Sally had fetched him the medical equipment, he began to patch up his own arm. Sherlock was now, however, left handed, and this proved to be a difficult task. After an excruciating minute and a half of watching him struggle, Sally tugged the supplies from his hand and began to patch up the wound, taking care not to infect it.  
“Don’t think this puts us on any better terms,” she warned, but her eyes were alight with amusement. “You’re still a freak.”

“And you remain ignorant of any and all data presented to you that would remotely lead you to a conclusion unless it is specifically spelled out for you as if to a child,” Sherlock returned, not missing a beat. Sally smiled. It was good to see that he hadn’t changed, at least not enough to stop him from constantly insulting her. She’d long passed the point of actually being insulted by him; it was more of friendly banter passed between the two of them. Though, of course she wouldn’t dare go so far as to call them friends.

“There. That’s the best I can do, for now. You should see a doctor-” Sally cut herself off, biting her lip. Sherlock remained silent.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t think-”

“Clearly.”

“I’ll just. Um. Go.”

“That would be best.”

Sally fled.

 

o0O0o

 

Irene lightly wraps the gauze around his arm, taking care to leave no open ends. “There,” she mutters, finishing. “Good to go.”

“I could have done that myself,” he says, smirking to her. She smiles. 

“I know.”

“If this is just your way of making me owe you-”

Irene waves his comment away, smirking. “Of course not. Dinner?”

He frowns. “No. No matter how many times you ask me, my answer’s not changing.”

“Oh, I know,” Irene says, loftily. “You were a lost cause from the start. But you know, he-”

“Don’t mention him,” he says, darkly and deadly quietly. “Not after he-” he broke off, unable to continue.

“I’m not used to you like this,” Irene comments lightly, patting the bed beside her. “Seeing you so… open. It’s not natural, you know, keeping these things in.” She knows this, of course. It hadn’t been easy to grow up lesbian in her time and place. She’d had her share of bottling things up and letting them fester until they exploded. He sighs and takes a seat next to her, stretching his legs out to the end of the bed.

“I know,” comes the clipped reply. He attempts a smile and fails rather spectacularly. “I’m trying.”

“You’re not,” Irene shoots back. “I can tell.”

“I’m trying to be efficient, here,” he retorts, frowning. “And I don’t like lying to her.”

Irene gives a long sigh. “That’s to be expected, of course.”

“She… she’s been so generous. I hate to do this to her. What if she finds out about this? About what I’m doing?”

“She won’t,” Irene assures him. “And if she does, I can take care of that.”

“I don’t want you to ‘take care of it’. I want this to be over.”

“That,” Irene says, smiling sadly, “is quite a lot to ask for.”

He gives a long breath that isn’t quite a sigh. “I know,” he admits. 

“Don’t forget your debt, of course.”

“Yes.” He falls silent, staring down at his own hands. They’d become callused and bruised from his work. 

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Irene reminds him, gently. “It’s not your fault, you know.”

“Of course it was my fault!” he explodes, turning to glare at her. “Everything was my fault. I could have stopped him-”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Irene says, placing a hand on his shoulder. He brushes it off, wincing as his arm protested the movement. 

“How much longer, do you think? Until the work is done?” he asks the room at large.

“Yours or mine?”

“You know what I mean.”

He never hears a reply.

 

o0O0o

 

When Sherlock returned from his next week long voyage to what Sally could only presume was hell, he sported a professional looking gauze wrap on his arm. It was caked in brown, dried blood, and Sally eyed it warily.

“Where’d you get that done?” she asked, not bothering to lead into the conversation with any sort of preamble. They’d left that stage somewhere between her patching him up and him ceasing to insult her tea.

“The injury or the patch job?”

“Both.”

“Bit of trouble with a fisherman. Got harpooned.” Sherlock shrugged, seeming to forget his arm was wrapped in bandages, and winced as he did so. “As for the mending of it, I did myself.”

“You?” Sally raised an eyebrow, glancing down at his arm. “You did that?”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock snapped. “Now. Coffee.”

Sally eyed him suspiciously before turning into the kitchen, making her way to the kettle and pulling out the tin of sugar cubes.

 

oO0Oo

 

Sally Donovan returned home from a rather tiring day to something that quite honestly did not improve her mood in the slightest. Sherlock Holmes was pinned to the table by a rather bulky looking man holding a long knife to his throat. Sally let out a squeak of alarm and the man holding the blade looked up. Sherlock used this to his advantage and, using his abnormally long legs, propelled the other man off his chest. The tall man fell backwards into the hall closet, his blade skittering across the floor. Sherlock towered over him. 

“Should’a stayed dead, Holmes!” the man roared, struggling to get to his feet. This task proved difficult owing to the large amount of coats draped over his figure. Sherlock hauled the man out of the closet and pinned him to the floor, curling his fingers around the man’s arms. 

“Moriarty is dead,” Sherlock hissed, slamming his head down against the man’s. 

“We’re still out there,” the man growled, grip slackening. Sherlock’s own grip loosened and the man leapt to his feet, snarling. Thick hands wrapped themselves around Sherlock’s throat. The man spun them around so Sherlock had his back facing the wall and slammed him backwards, hands still clasped around his throat.

The connection from Sally’s brain to her legs seemed to reanimate itself and she found herself pulling the man away from Sherlock. Sherlock braced himself against the wall, coughing, and the man took the opportunity to bolt from the room. Sherlock swore, looking after him.

“Why did you do that?” he demanded, furious. Sally threw her hands up. 

“He was going to kill you!” she shouted. 

“I had it under control,” Sherlock retorted, scowling.

“Oh, yes,” Sally said, sarcastically. “Clearly you had it under control, judging by the bruises you’re going to have on your neck.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes, and now he’s going to blab to the rest of Moriarty’s ring that I’m alive. And if they know I’m alive…” Sherlock let out a low breath. “You’re an idiot,” he muttered. Sally couldn’t tell if he was speaking to himself or to her. Sherlock gave Sally one last glare of contempt before passing out onto the couch. 

Always for the dramatics, Sally thought to herself as she arranged him into a position that would hopefully leave significantly less muscle pain the next day.

 

oO0Oo

 

“You’re going to what?”

“I’m going to kill him,” Sherlock stated, bluntly. “Before he has a chance to leak anything.”

“Can’t he have phoned anyone?” Sally reasoned. 

“Doesn’t have the means.” Sherlock tugged on a jacket and a wool hat. “How do I look?”

“Like a homeless drunk,” Sally scoffed. Sherlock beamed. 

“Perfect.” He tucked what Sally pretended to not notice was a gun under the jacket. Without wasting another second, he was gone.

 

oO0Oo

 

Three cups of tea, two books, and five ignored calls from the Yard later, Sherlock was back.

“That was quick,” Sally greeted, frowning slightly. She stood and started towards the kitchen to make coffee.

“He’s dead,” Sherlock confirmed.

“You wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t,” Sally reasoned. This earned her a look from Sherlock and a slight upward twitch of his lips which was gone with his next words.  
“I didn’t kill him.” 

Silence. Sally didn’t move from where she stood in the kitchen.

Sherlock took the hat off and threw it across the room. He shrugged the jacket from his shoulders and it joined the hat on the ground.

“Here.” Sherlock took the mobile from his pocket and threw it in Sally’s general direction. Sally barely caught the offending projectile in her hands before it crashed into her cupboard.

On the screen was a photo of a dead man. The man that had, not twenty four hours ago, held a blade to Sherlock’s throat. He was dead, sporting a bullet wound to the chest. Engraved on his forehead was a scarlet M.

“Moriarty?” she asked, looking up at Sherlock. The detective smirked and strode over to the couch. 

“All signs point to him,” he agreed. “However, the man that was killed was in Moriarty’s ranks.”

“Maybe it’s a revenge thing?” Sally suggested. Sherlock gave a patronizing laugh.

“Not likely. It’s someone trying to move up in Moriarty’s ranks. Or it’s another Moriarty whose name happens to begin with ‘M’.” Sherlock shrugged. “It could be anything. Anyone.”   
“You’d better get started, then,” Sally said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware of the tense changes. They are intentional.

“We need to go to America.”

Sally was more than used to this; Sherlock referring to his endeavors using the pronoun ‘we’. She supposed it probably had something to do with the fact that he seemed to need something to talk to- if not a skull, an army doctor; if not an army doctor, Sally. She wondered vaguely to herself if she should be flattered by this, but decided against it.

“All right. When will you-”

“We. As in you and I.” Sherlock looked at her from the couch, eyes sharp.

“What? No, I’m not going to America.” Sally frowned.

“Yes, you are.” Sherlock sat up. “It will look less suspicious if we appear as a couple. I can’t afford to take any risks.”

Sally sighed. She could protest, she could argue that no, she needed to be here for her job, but she knew it would do her no good.

“Fine. When are we leaving?” she asked.

“Tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Sally pulled out her phone to message her superior, letting him know that she’d come down with a fever and couldn’t come in to work for the next few days.

 

o0O0o

 

“We’re going to America,” he says. She looks at him in surprise.

“Both of us?” she asks, and he nods at her.

“Yes. In case something goes wrong. This one could be dangerous.” She feels the faintest traces of worry begin to form; he never admits anything to be dangerous. It must be, this time, if he’s asking her to help.

“Are you bringing her?” she asks.

“Yes.” His reply is short. Final. It makes sense. Two people look less suspicious than one.

“Very well. I will accompany you.”

He smiles ever so slightly. She takes that to mean she’s said the right thing.

 

o0O0o

 

They walked through the streets, arm in arm. Sherlock had instructed her not to look around nervously. At the time, Sally hadn’t taken it as a challenge. She’d underestimated just how much willpower it took to not keep an eye out for people trying to kill her. America was smellier than she’d anticipated, and she resisted the constant urge to wrinkle her nose.

“He’ll be somewhere around here,” Sherlock was saying, when Sally saw her.

She was standing in an alleyway, just watching them. She was tall, thin, and- Sally reluctantly admitted- absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was swirled up into a bun, and her ruby red lips were noticeable from across the street. She was dressed in a large coat that covered everything but her legs, which were slender and ended with high heeled pumps. The woman watched the various people walking around the streets- a man with thick glasses that looked like he was impatient paused in front of a very tall building before rushing inside; a blonde woman turned to her lover and whispered something. He ushered her away, hurriedly. Sally thought they could almost be siblings; they both had sandy hair that shone in the sun. Another man walked past with his dog, which was clearly stronger than him. The woman caught sight of Sally and Sherlock and seemed to freeze. She vanished back into the alleyway, disappearing from Sally’s sight.

“Sherlock,” she said, still looking at the alley.

“What?” he hissed.

“There… there was a woman,” Sally whispered. Sherlock turned, sharply. He looked around at the street, eyes flickering over the various people. He seemed to spot something, because his eyes widened a fraction, but he turned back to the street. 

“No there wasn’t,” he said, quietly.

“There was, she was staring at us,” Sally protested.

“No,” Sherlock said. “She wasn’t.” He led her into a small supermarket. “I think I know where he is,” he said. Sally nearly stumbled into the display stand of pasta. “Stay here. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, go back to the hotel and wait. If I’m not back by three days, call this number and go back home.” Sherlock pressed a slip of paper into Sally’s hand. Sally nodded. Sherlock swept away and out of the supermarket. Sally tucked the paper into her pocket and picked up a cart. She began walking up and down the aisles. If Sherlock was going to take that long of a time, she may as well pick up a few things.

 

o0O0o

 

She sees him walking through the streets- he is with her. She is surprised; she’d expected him to leave her so she wouldn’t come to any harm. The other woman sees her and backs away. The woman whispers to him, and he appears to see her. She leaves. After all, she isn’t supposed to be seen. She’s just a back up, in case something goes wrong.  
As it happens, nothing goes wrong. Their target is found, and taken care of. She does not see the woman again.

 

o0O0o

 

Sally stayed in the supermarket for half an hour before she decided to head back to the hotel. She couldn’t help but feel worried for Sherlock, freak though he was. Had someone taken him? Was he just taking a long time? She didn’t know, but decided not to risk it and go looking for him. She reached the hotel with a bag of groceries- after all, how weird would it look to go into a supermarket, shovel the cart half full of food, and then put it all back again?- and unlocked the door, unable to quell the worry in her stomach.

“I told you to wait twenty minutes,” came a voice from the darkened room, and Sally couldn’t fight back a relieved smile. “You waited thirty.” She flicked on the light. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, frowning.

“How soon did you get back?” she asked.

“Soon enough,” was the reply.

“Did you find him?” she asked. Sherlock scowled.

“Yes and no,” he said. “Our ‘M’ friend found him first.” He held out his mobile. On it was a picture of a man with a scruffy beard and a large bald patch, with a bloody ‘M’ carved into his head. Sally frowned.

“Seems this ‘M’ person’s working from the same list you are,” Sally said, looking at the picture.

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s not.” He flicked through messages on his phone. “There have been others- he’s not just working on Moriarty’s ring. He’s killing others. Research into them shows some history of criminal work, but no serious offenses. He has his own agenda.” Sherlock scowled. “I don’t know what he’s doing.”

Sally eyed him warily.

 

o0O0o

 

“She saw me,” Irene says, without preamble. He looks at her, raising an eyebrow. 

“I saw you,” he retorts. “You were supposed to stay hidden; she’s not supposed to know you’re there.”

“Obviously,” Irene snaps. “She’s going to get suspicious,” she warns. “She won’t stay ignorant forever. Sooner or later she’s going to figure out what you’re doing.”

“I don’t need her to stay ignorant forever,” he says, clearly upset. “Just until I’m finished. Then things can go back to normal.”

“Normal,” Irene repeats. “And you like normal, now, do you?”

“Yes,” he says. “I like normal.”

She sighs, looking at him. He looks older, and she can tell he feels older as well. His hair has grown some grey in it since they’d started, and she cannot help but feel sorry for him. Part of her wants to do something more for him, wants to help him. But she does not. They have an agreement, that’s all. He is in debt to her, in exchange for her help. That is all.  
He was the one who contacted her, of course. An agreement had been made. Irene would help him and he would help her. She has enemies, of course. He helps with them, helps get rid of the ones who pose a real threat to her. She helps him find what he’s looking for, find the loose threads that Moriarty’s left behind- and of course helped the rest of the world leave him behind, believe him dead. It’s a transaction, an exchange. But she has admittedly grown rather fond of him. 

He looks out of her window, at the city he could never bear to leave. She thinks she sees the ghost of a smile on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware of the tense changes. They are intentional.

This isn’t usual, Irene thinks to herself as her hands are pulled behind her body and wrapped in lengths of duct tape. Amateurs. Her mouth is treated the same, but her kidnappers are apparently considerate enough to leave her room to breathe through her nose.

She sees him trying to save her and wants to tell him that she’ll be fine, that she’s been through this sort of thing a hundred times. Obviously she can’t, and he struggles on. They don’t kill him. 

Usually, she’s much more careful than this. Usually, this doesn’t happen. But she’s been distracted since he approached her, since they’d started this mission. And so her guard has been down a bit, with the knowledge that she’s had someone else with her.

They haul her into a van and she complies, not wanting to get injured any more than she has to. He still tries, tries to save her. But there are too many of them, and there is only one of him. (She thinks back to the time when there were two of them and smiles to herself.) He realizes he isn’t going to win and concedes, retreating instead. She is glad. She does not want to see him harmed.

The van doors close, leaving her in darkness. She closes her own eyes, already beginning to plan what will happen next.

 

o0O0o

 

Sherlock seemed more worried than usual.

Sally watched as he paced through the kitchen, frowning to himself. Something must have happened, she thought. 

“Who’s next on your list?” she dared to ask. Sherlock shook his head sharply.

“This assassin,” he said, darkly. “I believe I know who he is.”

Sally sat down on her couch, looking at him. “Go on, then.”

Sherlock stopped pacing and faced her, giving her his signature ‘pre-deduction’ face. “Recently, he hasn’t killed anyone on my list. He’s carved the ‘M’, which can only stand for ‘Moriarty’, into all of his victims, and he’s most definitely a sniper. Judging by the fact that he’s killed some in Moriarty’s ring, he wants to be higher up in the ranks. This leaves only one possible person: Sebastian Moran.”

“Who?”

“Moran.” Sherlock’s eyes seemed to gleam at the name. “Moriarty’s right hand man,” Sherlock hissed, more to himself than to her. “It has to be him. He’s the most important of Moriarty’s people; if he was killed, then the rest of them would disband, probably. Or they’d be of such little threat that we wouldn’t need to worry about them.”

“Right.” Sally frowned. Sherlock still seemed distracted. “And you know where he is?”

“No.” Sherlock stomped over to her chair and collapsed. “He’s impossible to track. He seems to be following me every step I take.” Sherlock did the best Thinking Pose he could manage, considering he was sitting in a chair. “But I’ll find him.”

Sally nodded.

“I have to leave. I’m going after him,” Sherlock said, staring at the ceiling. “I might not be back for a while.”

“What?” Sally sat up. “Are you crazy? You could get killed! You said yourself he’s dangerous-”

“I’m going after him.” 

 

o0O0o

 

Irene hears him before she sees him. The guards standing watch over her don’t stand a chance. He takes them out and rushes towards her.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, taking out a blade and working on the tape covering her wrists and hands. She shakes her head. He finishes with her wrists and she rips the rest of the tape off. He cuts the tape covering her mouth carefully, and she winces as he pulls it off.

“That didn’t take long,” she says, smirking at him. He rolls his eyes.

“We don’t have time. I was almost seen. Come on.” He waits until he sees her standing until he leaves, her at his heels. They navigate the abandoned hospital, turning through the maze of hallways. They turn a corner, see a tall man standing there, and rush back the way they’ve come. He looks familiar to Irene but she does not say anything. They have more important matters to think about right now. The man appears to hear them and they both know he’s begun to follow them.

She turns one corner and he turns another, both looking for the exit. She hears Moran’s voice and knows that she’s running away from him. She hears a shot and keeps running.   
He joins her a moment later, looking furious. “Moran is dead,” he says. She nods. 

They reach the exit, breathless and filled with adrenaline. The man that had been following them is not there, and both of them are grateful, though for slightly different reasons. Irene does not voice hers. He doesn’t need to voice his.

“You brought a car?” she asks incredulously as she sees the shiny black vehicle waiting for them on the road. The door opens for them before they are halfway to it, and he smirks.  
“Of course,” he says, trying to sound pompous. It doesn’t work. Irene laughs. “After you, mademoiselle.”

“Ever the charmer,” Irene says, sarcastically. 

They get into the car and he takes the wheel. 

“Does she know?” Irene asks, once they are a safe distance away from the hospital.

“No,” he says, curtly. 

“Are you going to tell her?” 

“No.” He frowns. 

“She’s smarter than you give her credit for,” Irene remarks, shrugging. 

“She’s not going to know,” he says. 

Irene says nothing, but knows the truth.

 

o0O0o

 

Sally woke up to the door slamming. She sat up from the couch, where she’d fallen asleep with a lukewarm mug of tea beside her.

“Moran’s dead,” Sherlock growled, scowling and returning to the chair that he’d apparently claimed as his. 

“That’s… good?” Sally ventured, a little confused.

“I didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. Ah.

“That ‘M’ person?” she said, hesitantly. “I thought you said that was Moran.”

“I thought it was,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “If it was, he’s killed himself. And I don’t believe that’s the case. It’s someone else. Someone… someone else. I need to find him.” He seemed to lose focus. He stood from the chair and shrugged on his coat. “I may not return,” he said, and stormed out of the room, leaving a tension filled air in his wake.   
Sally watched him leave. This was puzzling. If Moran was indeed dead, by the hand of ‘M’, then who was ‘M’? Some other person from Moriarty’s ring? She doubted it. 

And what was Sherlock doing?

She knew he was hiding something from her. He left for days and returned with injuries patched up perfectly. He refused to acknowledge the mysterious woman, whenever she tried to bring the subject up. He obviously knew something about her, but he wasn’t saying anything. The ‘M’ assassin had killed others, not just the ones on Sherlock’s list. He was obviously a criminal, killing either because these people had done him a personal wrong, or just for the fun of it. 

But what if…?

Sally’s blood ran cold. It was Sherlock. She’d been housing a criminal all this time. Sherlock Holmes was the assassin. Sherlock Holmes had killed all those people. Sherlock Holmes was lying to her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm aware of tense changes. They are intentional.

Sally Donovan wrapped her coat tight against her body. The rain was vicious, icy cold. She knocked on the door in front of her again, shivering against the wind. The door swung open, revealing a very cross DI Dimmock. The light on his porch lit up Sally’s figure, and he squinted in the light, obviously having been woken up. 

“What the hell- Sally, what are you doing here?”

“Sir.” Sally stepped forward, eyes wide. “I need to talk to you about something.”

 

o0O0o

 

“Moran’s dead, now,” Irene says to him. He blinks, as if realizing this for the first time. Perhaps he is.

“Yes,” he says. He sounds lost, she thinks.

“You’ve worked with me long enough,” she tells him. “I think we can agree that all debts have been paid off by now, yes?” They haven’t.

He nods. “She left,” he says, quietly. Irene knows. 

“I’m sorry,” Irene says. “Do you want to stay here?”

“You mean with you?” Irene nods. He smiles tiredly. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You could go back to London. Make a big dramatic reveal. I know how much you love dramatics.” He snorts. “They’d welcome you back with open arms.” 

He shrugs. “I could stay out here, on the run. Just live as an outcast. It would be better for everyone, after all.” He sighs. “I’m sick of the press, anyways. I’ve had more than my share of them. And it would cause too much pain to go back. I’m better off staying like this.”

Irene nods. “I understand.”

“I don’t know where I would go,” he admits. 

“I can set something up for you. As a last favor. No strings attached, no debts. I promise.” She smiles at him. She has grown to like him more than she thought she would, after all this. Gallivanting around the world looking for criminals has formed some sort of bond between them. He looks at her thoughtfully.

“Somewhere quiet,” he says. She had expected a different answer, possibly a request for somewhere else in London. But he’s changed since then, they both have.

“How does France sound?” she asks. “I can call in a few favors, set something up for you.” He smiles gratefully. “And if you like, you can help out with the criminal populous there.”

“I’ve dealt with more than enough criminals for a lifetime,” he says, stretching his arms behind his back. Irene smiles, just looking at him.

“It was nice, having a bodyguard,” she says.

“Is that supposed to be a ‘thank you’?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s the closest you’re going to get.” 

He laughs.

Irene flicks through her contacts until she finds the one she’s looking for. She has a little web of her own; perhaps not the vast network that Moriarty held control over, but something along the lines. And she, as he did, knows exactly where each strand leads. She sends off a few messages, letting them know exactly what she wants and exactly when she wants it. They all reply nearly instantaneously, as she knew they would.

“There’s a villa in France that you can go to,” she says, looking at him. “It’s a small little town, quiet enough to settle down in. You might even be able to find work there.”

He shakes his head. “Work is boring.” She smiles at that.

They wait in silence until the reply comes.

“672, Centurion street,” she reads off. “The blue building. He’ll tell you where to go when you get there. Just tell him your name.” She smiles, forwarding the address to another well known number when he looks out the window of the room.

“Thank you,” he says, quietly.” She nods, though she knows he’ll be thanking her for more, later. But that is later, and this is not.

He doesn’t look at her, but he smiles a little, looking out the window. She thinks to herself that it’s enough.

 

o0O0o

 

Sherlock glances at the address in his hands. 672 Centurion street. This is it. He looks up at the blue building and walks up the few stairs leading up to the door. The handle is unlocked, strangely. He supposes that this is a small enough town that the people here don’t have to worry about burglars, but he’s still suspicious. He pushes the door open and creeps up the stairs. Is someone here?

Something thumps above him. Instantly, his hand flies to the gun in his coat pocket that he hasn’t left for three years. He creeps up the stairs, taking care not to make any of them creak. The floor above him thumps again, and he reaches the top of the stairs, gun held out in front of him. 

He has to be here. He was told that he would be here, he was told. This is the man he’s looking for. 

Sherlock spins around the corner, gun held aloft. The other person appears to have better ears than Sherlock anticipated, however, and jumps out to face him at the same time.  
And then Sherlock isn’t looking at the mysterious assassin anymore; he isn’t looking at the man who’s carved ‘M’ into so many people’s foreheads. 

He’s looking at John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter's so short; the next one will make up for it.


	6. Chapter 6

“John.”

Sherlock’s gun clatters to the ground, his arms falling to his sides.

“Sherlock.”

John’s gun doesn’t waver. He stares hard at the figure in front of him.

Sitting alone by herself, somewhere miles away, Irene Adler is smiling to herself.

“You’re dead,” Sherlock says, bluntly.

“So are you,” John says, and the gun lowers. He tucks it back into his back pocket.

Something seems to click in Sherlock’s mind. “You’re ‘M’,” he says, frowning.

John raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“The man who’s been killing everyone on my list, the one who shoots them from long range distances before carving an ‘M’ onto their foreheads,” he elaborates. “You were… you were working for Moriarty?” The words sound wrong to him, even now. He knows he’s missing something.

John blinks, not saying anything. And then, incredibly, a laugh bubbles out from his chest. And then he is doubled over, clutching at his chest. 

“Sher… you thought the ‘M’ stood for Moriarty,” he breathes, still laughing. “Sherlock, you _idiot_ .” He beams at Sherlock, and the sight makes Sherlock’s gut twist. “That wasn’t an ‘M’. It was a ‘W’.”

Oh. 

Sherlock feels ridiculous. Of course, of _course_ . It all seems so obvious, now.

“Mycroft told me to-” John begins.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock clarifies. “You were in touch with Mycroft?"

John blinks. “So were you,” he realizes. “He knew all along and he didn’t tell me.”

“He didn’t tell me,” Sherlock retorts, scowling. He’s going to murder his brother when he gets home. Home. Are they going to go home? Sherlock’s list has run dry, and if John has been getting his targets from the same list, then he will be done as well, surely.

“Fair enough,” John says, shrugging. “Come on. I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

John leads him into the little house wordlessly. He pours water into the kettle and sets it on the little stove. Sherlock notes with a bit of amusement that a box of John’s favorite tea is resting on the counter by the stove. John was always very picky about his tea. It seems fitting that even now he has his favourite.

“I thought you were dead,” Sherlock says, slowly. He looks carefully at John, who does not look at him. “John.”

John turns, and Sherlock sees. He looks older, weary. His hair is graying and his eyes look exhausted. His shoulder must be hurting him, because his other arm looks stronger, Sherlock notes. He no longer walks with confidence, but walks with a slight slump, as if the weight of everything has crushed his spine. He’s not been eating regularly and it shows, even through the oatmeal jumper that he’s wearing. 

Sherlock wants to accuse him of leaving, of leaving Sherlock alone again. But he cannot. After all, he left first. He thought back to when Sally had told him of John’s death. Then, he- and indeed everyone else- had assumed that it was Sherlock’s death that had caused the “heartbroken” doctor to follow him. And now he feels guilt, for assuming that John would care enough to kill himself. Of course not. John wouldn’t. Sherlock had been an idiot to ever assume that John would care.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says. He does not know what else to say. 

“I know,” John says, and it is not nearly enough.

The kettle signals that it’s boiled, thanks to the gas stove, and John heaves it off, setting it gently on the counter. He busies himself preparing the two mugs of tea, pointedly avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“Moriarty’s people,” John says, answering Sherlock’s unasked question. “They were still out there. And while they were, I couldn’t rest knowing they were the reason you died.” He looks down into his tea mug.

“But why did you-”

“Why did I carve the ‘W’,” John finishes, still looking at his tea. “I didn’t know. And I didn’t figure it out until now. Mycroft told me to do it, made me mark my kills.” Mycroft. Sherlock frowns.

“I was going on the same list you were,” he realizes. “Mycroft wanted to know which kill was whose.”

“Probably so he wouldn’t let slip that we were alive to each other,” John agrees. “Interfering git.” John is much calmer about Mycroft’s involvement than Sherlock feels, he notes.  
“So he gave you this address, then?” Sherlock presses, thinking back to the anonymous text he’d gotten merely a day earlier. “By text, telling you to come?”

“No,” John says, slowly. “I… I finished, I killed Moran. After that, I didn’t have anything else to do. I could come back to London, reveal myself, and just try to live a normal life again.”

“Normal?” Sherlock questions. “And you like normal now, do you?” John smiles, as if he’s thinking of an inside joke.

“No,” he says, finally looking up at Sherlock. “I couldn’t go back. I’d cause too much pain. I’m living out here, now.” 

“So you found this address?” Sherlock presses. “Or Mycroft gave it to you, yes?.”

“No,” John says, simply. “Neither. Irene did.”

John seems to wait for an answer. Sherlock remembers the mug of tea in his hands and brings it to his lips. It tastes old, familiar, and like home. He swallows, then sets the mug down.

“I see.”

It makes sense, now. He’d spotted Irene in America, and she’d seemed a little alarmed. Come to think of it, he remembered a blonde couple making their way through the streets.  
“That woman,” he says, frowning. “Not Adler. The woman you were with.”

“You saw me?”

“Briefly. Not enough to recognize you.” Sherlock shrugs. “But that woman. Who is she?”

“Mary Morstan,” John says, carefully. “She’s my wife.”

Sherlock falls silent. The tea in his hands seems to have lost its warmth. Nevertheless, he tries to swallow another mouthful.

“I see.” His tone is cold. John looks at him for a moment before he seems to understand something. He smiles faintly.

“You don’t.”

“I do.”

“Sherlock, trust me. You really don’t.”

Sherlock fixes John with a hard stare. “And what don’t I see?”

In response, John holds up a hand. It is callused and bruised, and well tanned- except for one finger. Around it lies a patch of skin that is, while still tanned, lighter than the rest. Divorced, recently.

“Why?” he asks.

“She found out,” John says. “I married her about a year after you died. When I had to fake my own death, I assured her that it was for safety, that everything was fine. But she figured out that I was killing people, and couldn’t condone it.” It was half true. Mary had figured out that John was killing Moriarty’s people, and while she hadn’t liked it, she’d gone along with it. It was when she’d seen that John was working with Irene Adler, a slender and beautiful woman, that everything had changed. Quite a few things had happened nearly instantaneously. 

John had fallen out of love with Mary, Mary had become jealous of John seeing Irene Adler, Irene had seen Mary for the first time and displayed her full blown ‘seductress’ mode, Mary had fallen for it rather sweetly, and most of the loose ends had been tied up. John didn’t feel guilty, Irene didn’t feel lonely, and Mary was satisfied. He supposed that the instance of him falling out of love with Mary hadn’t been instantaneous, though his realization had been.

“You’re hiding something,” Sherlock says, but the malice that had laced his tone before is gone. He suspects it has something to do with John’s marital status. John smiles knowingly.

“Yes,” John says, and nothing else. He drains the last of his tea and sets it down, sighing. “Oh, that’s good.”

Sherlock looks at the last dregs of tea in his mug and sets it next to John’s empty one. 

“So,” he says.

“So.”

“What now?”

John looks at him. “I wanted to stay here,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “I’m sick of the press.”

“We could go home,” Sherlock says, looking at him. “We could, John.”

“What, and try to go back to normal?”

“No,” Sherlock says, shaking his head. “Normal? No. Us.”

John smiles. “Us. I could live with us.”

Sherlock matches his smile. “Good.”

 

o0O0o

 

The train isn’t crowded, and they both appreciate it. No one appears to recognize them, which isn’t surprising. Sherlock’s dyed his hair orange and grown out a stubbly beard. John’s grown a moustache that Sherlock hates with a passion. They find a car to themselves and sit alongside each other, John leaning on Sherlock’s arm. They’re both exhausted, and John is more than relieved to have Sherlock back.

Sherlock doesn’t know what to feel.

When Sally told him that John had killed himself, when he’d gone to her so long ago, he almost hadn’t believed it. John was strong. John was a soldier. John wouldn’t. But he had, and so Sherlock had been alone again. It was a strange concept. He’d been alone before, before John. Mycroft had been there, of course, but not really. Once Sherlock had started with the drugs, Mycroft had gone the ‘throw out the baby with the bathwater’ route. Apart from the occasional extra funds, he hadn’t heard from his brother.  
He’d met Lestrade, then. The man was barely a DI, but he had recognized Sherlock’s genius nearly immediately. Lestrade had something Mycroft had barely ever had- leverage. He had access to the Yard, to cases. Sherlock was allowed to help, but only if he stayed off the drugs. It had taken a long, long time, but eventually Lestrade’s efforts had paid off. Sherlock owes him more than he’ll ever admit to anyone, even himself. 

But then John had come, offering Sherlock something he’d never had before. John had been his friend, someone he found himself caring for, no matter how much he resisted. But as Mycroft had reminded him, caring was not an advantage. And as always, Mycroft had been right.

Sherlock carefully slides an arm around John, pulling him closer. John, whose eyes are closed, merely sighs, shifting closer to him. Sherlock presses his lips just gently to John’s forehead, careful not to disturb him. He closes his own eyes, leaning over so his head rests on top of John’s. 

Together, they wait.

 

o0O0o

 

“Sherlock,” John hisses, sharply. The inn is busy, so Sherlock’s name isn’t noticed among the chatter. John tugs at his arm, urging him to climb back up the stairs to their room.  
“What?” Sherlock follows him back up to their room, closing the door behind him. He locks it and turns to John.

“Look at this.” John shoves a newspaper into Sherlock’s hands, frantically. Across the front page, the headline ‘Criminal Mastermind Returns’ is splashed. Sherlock stares. It’s an article about him.

“‘Sally Donovan, officer for New Scotland Yard, provides a fresh scoop on the ‘Fraud Detective’ story,’” Sherlock reads. He burns with fury. “Donovan.”

“What about her?” John is confused.

Sherlock explains about how he used her, about how he took her to America and about how he told her about this mysterious assassin. “She thinks I was killing- hang on.” He frowns at John. “You didn’t just stick to the list of Moriarty’s people.” John blinks. “You were killing others, John. Why?” he demands.

John sighs.

“Mycroft approached me, after you died,” he starts, sitting down on one of the two beds in the room. “He found your phone on that rooftop. It was enough evidence to convince me that you were innocent, but of course it couldn’t be proven that it wasn’t staged.” He shrugs. “I knew Moriarty’s people were out there, and I knew that I couldn’t just sit and do nothing. So.” He looks at Sherlock carefully. “I contacted Irene Adler.”

Sherlock blinks. “You knew she was dead,” he says. “You lied to me, but you believed she was dead.”

“Well.” John shrugs. “Then I knew she wasn’t. I asked her to help me, and she agreed, but for a price.” 

“Protection,” Sherlock finishes, eyes alight with understanding. “The others you killed, they were enemies of hers?” John nods. “John Watson and Irene Adler.” Sherlock gives a soft laugh. “What a thought.”

“Sherlock, this isn’t funny.” John frowns. “We can’t say that you’re innocent, because I was the one who killed those people. I can’t take the credit, because that would mean revealing Irene’s alive.” He shakes his head. “And that’s out of the question.”

“You’ve grown fond of her,” Sherlock notes.

“A little,” John agrees, though he has an idea that Mary has probably grown fonder of her. “What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to stay here,” Sherlock says, firmly. 

“What are we going to do about the press?” John insists. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock smiles. “We’re not going to exist.” 

“You mean stay here in hiding?” John asks. 

“Not completely. There are a few people we can trust. Angelo. Mrs. Husdon. Lestrade. Mycroft.” Sherlock shrugs. “They can provide assistance.”

“I suppose.” John looks around at the inn. “Where would we stay?”

“221B, of course.” John stares at him. “It’s the least likely place we’d go,” he reasons.

“Home,” John says, looking out the window.

“Home,” Sherlock agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end. The title of this story came from the idea of having Irene Adler working with someone called "Läkare", which is Swedish for ‘Doctor’. I revised it out, feeling that it was too obvious that it was John. I hope you enjoyed! (I also hope it wasn't too obvious that John was the one working with Irene)


End file.
